Masquerade
by WarpedTenchu
Summary: The unconventional real story of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy; the tale of how the pureblood and the muggle met, fell in love, lied and lived. This is the story of a romance woven together by music and obsession.
1. How they Met

Hello peeps. New story. Sorry, the plot bunny wouldn't leave. :P Thanks to my BF Sammi for being the beta for this chapter!

Disclaimer: I don't own any of JK rowling's characters/plots, any thing you don't recongnise is mine.

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Masquerade

Chapter One: How They Met

Today had been hellish. It had been an absolutely brutal day; which had come to a close with him lying awake in bed next to his wife, Narcissa. They had just finally coaxed their exhausted son into a fitful sleep and forget about the traumatic events of the day. Albus Dumbledore had been murdered today. The greatest wizard of all time was gone. True, he had never liked the man particularly, but he respected him and in his world respect was hard to earn. Dead; erased from the world by the man he had trusted and vouched for repeatedly - Severus Snape. It was strange; he had never considered Severus to be a bad person, instead just someone caught up in the wrong circumstances and being an accomplished Legilimens, he was rarely wrong; especially about matters of the heart and mind.

She shifted and turned to face him, her eyelids drooping, slightly covering her blue eyes and smiled at him. The sapphire orbs sparkled innocently, albeit tiredly and looked at him, searching for answers out of the horrific maze of blood and darkness they had managed to ensnare themselves in. There was a flare of defiance in those eyes, a flash of courage and hope and it was that little beacon that he kept close to his heart. His little guiding light, that had promised him that they would make it out of this terrifying darkness alive.

"Tell me a story Lucius."

He smiled. This was an age old ritual for her. When troubles weighed heavily on her mind and she could not slip pass the final barrier into sleep, she would always ask him to tell her a story. And just like a child, the constant rhythm of his voice was enough to lull her to sleep. Before him, it had been her older brother whose voice had eased her into sleep. And in the earliest stages of her life, before the incident, it had been her father, whose deep alto voice wove magical tales around her and spirited her away to mystical places in her dreams. But that was all gone now, _gone._ How fleeting time was. Nothing. _Nothing._ Nothing was certain, everything was in flux and with Voldemort's current reign of terror, everything was in cased in a primordial chaos.

"Tell me the story of how we met."

The hand that was running itself through her golden hair stopped momentarily and his stomach began squirming uncomfortably. She shouldn't be asking that question. _She shouldn't; _unless something was _very _wrong.

"Don't you remember? It was dark when we met." This was his attempt with being as vague as possible and he was failing miserably, especially since Narcissa's eyes had snapped to attention. He smiled to himself. When she wanted an answer she got an answer, not that anyone had a choice in the matter; she was like a fierce cat pouncing on its prey. _A very _cute_ cat._

"No, Lucius, I don't remember. Tell me."

He sighed and felt the weight of his years. He was immensely tired; so very tired of everything. But he was still alive and a direct effect of that was that he had to keep on living.

He began their 'story', the well rehearsed lie that had manifested itself into reality. As his voice started spinning the well woven lie, the memory cogs in his mind began churning too. Suddenly and slightly unwillingly, he began to remember the glorious star-filled night on which they had first met.

* * *

Before he saw her, he heard her and by then, he had already begun unwittingly falling in love with her. The sound of a small string quartet was echoing through the cold December streets; their notes entwining and their chords occasionally clashing created a beautiful symphony of sound that seemed to brighten the chilly stone street. Subconsciously, his feet led him to the source of the sound and as his expensive leather shoes made foot prints in the snow, he noted the unusual blend of melody and harmony.

The melody was pretty; yes, but he felt it was weak, or somehow uncompleted. The harmony however, was a deep, luscious sound that reverberated into his very soul and filled it with warmth and fire that was alien to him. He had never known much of 'warmth', of emotions such as 'compassion' and 'sympathy' and 'empathy'. He was born into a family of emptiness, a stiff, restrictive life of coldness and formality. To some it must seem as though it was his very birthright to never know, learn or even understand at least one of the many facets of love. As a child, he never thought anything was missing. He had everything he wanted and more and best of all it was given to him without effort. So one could say that he was spoilt and it would be true. When he reached adulthood and realised that not everything came on a silver platter, he was very shocked, but his childhood had moulded him, shaped him and he became a man that would _always_ get his way.

But in the earliest of times, long before he could form comprehensive memories, there was always music. It was a sweet pristine sound at first that eventually matured as he grew older into something mystical. Music was a neutral subject within the pureblood society and when he took it up, there was surprise at first and then indifferent acceptance. Driven by that little strand of sound that was always floating within his conciseness, he dove head first into something that he never truly understood. It became his little childhood obsession, something he willingly studied in the dim light underneath the bed sheets. He always adored music, always loved it, but as is with many people, he grew older. The little 'fantasy' kingdom that he had built with music began to always seem further away until, eventually its majestic golden walls began to crumble and fade away altogether. Its disappearance or rather its existence was pushed out of focus by the 'usual' things, parental pressure, his studies (after all, he was a Malfoy, not a Crabbe or a Goyle) and of course the same thing that occupied every other hormonal teenage boy's mind; girls.

Music, it seemed was all but forgotten.

But it was there. It was always just _there. _Waiting it seemed; for him to come back and claim it.

When he finally broke out of his arrogant adolescent years, music, slowly and quietly seeped into his mind. At first, it was like a ghoul that visited in the night, plagued his dreams and then retreated in the morning light. The long nights, those many years ago spent listening to music came crashing down; awakened with a great intensity. The music in the beginning, followed everywhere, like a perfectly camouflaged black cat, stalking him from the shadows. It then grew bolder and confronted him, like a ghost that only he could see and hear screaming wildly at him. It was during this time that he almost began to loathe music. But the headaches and migraines eventually dimmed and the music settled down comfortably in the background.

* * *

So why was he here again? He certainly wasn't here to take a stroll down memory lane. The answer was simple and unfortunately had not yet arrived. Nott had promised him something exciting was going to happen; on this very street, on this very night and near this very lamppost. Why Nott chose to point out the lamppost as something significant, Lucius had no idea, but he chose to stay away from delving into the inner workings of someone with an inferior brain for fear that Nott's sheer idiocy would taint him.

"Lucius, mate!"

_Ah, there he was._

"Nott, I don't appreciate dirtying any shoes on muggle-ridden streets and I certainly dislike getting snowed on."

He scratched the back of his head, wrinkling an outfit that looked hazardously put together; wether that 'look' was intended, his guess was as good as anyone's. After all, everything about Nott screamed 'hazardous'.

"We had a little mixed up with times, you know, couple of the blokes arrived later, than well, expected." Nott added a little awkward laugh, as if to ease the tension.

"No, I don't know and I am most certainly am _not_ amused.'

A scream resonated throughout the cobbled streets. It was soon joined by another and then another.

"Tonight's entertainment, Lucius, I call it the Symphony of Fear." Nott performed a well rehearsed bow and disappeared to join the night's 'festivities'.

_Idiotic Nott._ He was out on a muggle infested street at this ungodly hour for _this? _To hear a couple of measly mudbloods scream? Couldn't they indulge themselves in more civilised behaviour? Like going to the minister's ball and destroying an old fart's political career? At least that was fun.

He needed better acquaintances. Soon.

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okay. yeah. Leave a comment please! :)


	2. How they Met II

_ I know this hasn't been updated in ages, but I find it really difficult to write for some reason... All HP- related belongs to you-know-who ^_^

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Masquerade (Chapter Two: How they Met II)

Lucius couldn't understand why, the other members of his generation decided that indulging in barbaric acts of torture and killing were _fun_. It was, to him at least, a messy and bloody affair that usually had equally nasty consequences, like being thrown in Azkaban Prison; for murder after all, was strictly forbidden.

* * *

Stupid. Infuriating. _Blonde!_ She shouldn't really be discriminating based on the colouring of his hair, since she was also blonde, but at this precise moment, she didn't know what his name was. And honestly, she couldn't care. _But how dare he?!_ What sort of person takes advantage of all that horrible chaos and steals a piece of music? Not any _sane_ person would; at least not anyone interested in self-preservation. Then again, neither was she because she was currently weaving through the panic-stricken crowd in an attempt to follow down the blonde man.

People were running around, screaming, trying to get away from the figures draped in black, with tall pointed hats and silver skeletal masks. They reminded her of the pictures of the Ku Klux Klan she had seen in the American History books she borrowed from her father, now her brother's expansive library. They were an inverted black version, but just as horrendous as the original nonetheless.

"What on earth are you doing?" She felt herself being jerked into a dark alley way and instinctively tried to pull herself from her captor's grasp.

"Narcissa! Look at me!" She, suddenly recognising the voice turned to face her brother whose face was twisted in worry.

"Narcissa, you could've been killed!"

"Don't be stupid, this town is swarming in police, I'm sure they'll get these black-cloaked thugs off the street in no time. Now my music, that is another matter, and one I must urgently attend to-"

"Narcissa, the police _are_ here. Look!"

After her brother weakened his hold on her enough to allow her to peek at the events occurring outside of the tiny alley, she clasped her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream. For the first time since the hooded men appeared, she finally saw exactly what they were doing. Massacre was a word that couldn't adequately describe the scene before her. 'Massacre' implied more blood, but this, there was no blood. The snow was still blanketed the town white. People were on their knees, some in the foetal position screaming from some horrendous pain, but she could see _no cause_. Bodies were strewn all over the street and there was _no blood_.

She felt faint and her brother looked grim. They couldn't escape from the alley, not with slaughter happening on both ends, but it felt cowardly waiting for the storm to pass them by in the reeking alley, while the townspeople fell like flies dieing mid-flight. They were nobles and the filthy little space they currently occupied did not befit them, nor did watching the town their family had watched for many centuries burn. Every cell in their bodies screamed abuse at their spinelessness, but the brother's first duty was to protect his sister, not rush off into some glorifying battle and as a lady and younger sibling, she was in every right justified to be rooted on the spot with fear.

It was five hours later before Narcissa stumbled blankly from the passageway and her brother followed from behind to view the wreckage. Others they noted were doing the same. It was an eerie scene. The landscape was covered by a fog that did not quite hide the dead and from it; people were slowly wandering from its midst; appearing and disappearing from her view. Quietness hung above the people as their revelled in shock and horror, but from the silence a wail rose from the depths of a black abyss called despair.

Her brother, the inherent leader, gathered his ancestors poise and strength and began the daunting task of dealing with the aftermath of the onslaught. There would be no rest for him tonight and no good sleep for many nights to come.

* * *

He wanted to die; to roll into bed and not wake up. He has just confirmed the deaths of twenty people to their loved ones. Twenty different families wanted affirmation that what they had witnessed was real and that their brothers, fathers, sisters, mothers, cousins and friends were never going to pick themselves up off the ground. He sat behind his desk with a passive look while they raged, asked for blood and vengeance. His expression altered only slightly as some cried and keened before him. He consoled them all; gently told them to being funeral arrangements. Listened to them pour out their grief.

At three o' clock in the morning, when the last person had left, he trudged slowly upstairs to his sister waiting bleary-eyed. He kneeled before her and rested his arm and head on her lap. Only then did he cry.

He sobbed from exhaustion and the pain he felt from his legs that were cramped from not moving for five hours while frozen stiff in that dark alley. He wept for all the good, innocent people who had died and their families who were now all missing a cherished member. And then he shed tears in relief that he was alive. That _Narcissa_ was still alive.

"Tell me a story Jon," Narcissa said later when she was tucked in bed and he was sitting beside her in a chair than belonged in the dining room hall but was always here instead.

"_The Lost Salt Gift of Blood,_ by Alistair Macleod. There are times even now when I awake at four o' clock in the morning-"

She wasn't listening. She never was, but he continued to read until the last word had been read off the page. The ritual had become not only a familiar comfort to her, but him as well.

"There was not much left of my father, physically, as he lay there with the brass chains on his wrists and the seaweed in his hair."

He smiled as he closed the book and placed it back in its place within the massive bookshelf, his sister comfortably and safely asleep. Only now; now, he could rest.

* * *

She awoke to dead silence, but within that quietness, she could feel the vibrating of strings that pulled her so. And so she followed.

In the faint, early morning light, the notes climbed and fell by the octaves; then soared; quickly in excited notes, before dipping again below the middle C. The melody and harmony lines began to slowly walk away from each other and danced lightly in a non-existent summer breeze before meeting again at the lower end of the spectrum. There, the rich, vibrant sounds resonated with such a force that it penetrated her bones to touch the very depths of her soul.

It made her shiver; the way her music was being played and so she walked on entranced, through the golden mist, closer and closer to the glorious sound.

The sound began to stumble when she reached the peak of a hill that over looked the source of the sound.

To an untrained ear, the playing may have sounded plausible, but the pianist was playing this part horrifically. This part was meant to be played cantabile; _freely_ and with emotion! It was all wrong! The technique was perfect, she could not dispute that, but she had never imagined her music to sound so dull!

Wrong! Wrong! _Wrong!_

She ran faster and angrier with each step towards the abandoned building. The sound grated against her nerves and when she opened the doors, they were pushed with such force that the slammed against the cobwebbed walls.

The music stopped and the pianist's startled grey eyes found hers.

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I know it's short, but it's coming along... slowly. Reviews appreciated!


	3. How they Loved I

How they Loved Part 1:

Masquerade: How the Loved I

* * *

She awoke to dead silence, but within that quietness, she could feel the vibrating of strings that pulled her so. And so she followed.

In the faint, early morning light, the notes climbed and fell by the octaves; then soared; quickly in excited notes, before dipping again below the middle C. The melody and harmony lines began to slowly walk away from each other and danced lightly in a non-existent summer breeze before meeting again at the lower end of the spectrum. There, the rich, vibrant sounds resonated with such a force that it penetrated her bones to touch the very depths of her soul.

It made her shiver; the way her music was being played and so she walked on entranced, through the golden mist, closer and closer to the glorious sound.

The sound began to stumble when she reached the peak of a hill that over looked the source of the sound.

To an untrained ear, the playing may have sounded plausible, but the pianist was playing this part horrifically. This part was meant to be played cantabile; _freely_ and with emotion! It was all wrong! The technique was perfect, she could not dispute that, but she had never imagined her music to sound so dull!

Wrong! Wrong! _Wrong!_

She ran faster and angrier with each step towards the abandoned building. The sound grated against her nerves and when she opened the doors, they were pushed with such force that the slammed against the cobwebbed walls.

The music stopped and the pianist's startled grey eyes found hers.

She was breathing heavily, furiously as she stalked towards him.

"Wrong!"

He was too startled to move as the woman with wispy hair intently moved towards him with the white outside lights following her in. The corners of his lips twitched into a smile as she came and sat next to him on the piano stool.

She was still recovering her breath, from what he deduced was her running up the hill, as he began to observe her up close. Some locks of golden hair had escaped her messy high bun and framed her pixyish, round face. Others cascaded down her back and whether by design or accident, in soft yellow waves that glinted in the early morning sun to give the appearance of little yellow paths carving their way down the sensuous curves of her back.

His eyes delighted in the sight of the tightly wrapped black dress that hugged the silhouette of her gently curved backbone and his pulse quickened at the white, pinkish flesh of her collarbone that the black dress revealed. His grey eyes travelled up her profile and gazed at the side of her delicately sculpted face. The early morning sun had begun to seep into the room and dance across her face, giving it a gorgeous golden glow added to the hazy, mystic scene that was unfolding before him.

Her laboured breathing had become quieter now, almost calm. Yet suddenly she gasped.

And then magic of the room broke. The room became cold. The sun became cold. Their frosted breaths became apparent too.

And suddenly, quite suddenly, they found themselves staring directly into each others eyes – hers blue and his grey.

"Wrong." She stated in her quiet voice.

Lucius' face smiled arrogantly in response.

"Well, then. Why not show me how it is meant to be played, little violinist?"

He moved over for her and their shoulders touched for an instant as she shuffled into position. The magic of the early morning rekindled a little flame at their shoulders touching and another little fire of a similar kind snaked its way into the deep abyss of his heart.

Her long painted fingers descended on the white ebony keys and where they fell, they left _music_.

Her hands didn't saunter methodically and precisely over the piano as his did; they _danced_. They danced and sometimes skipped and sometimes added trills when there were none. The great abandoned hall swelled with music and restored to it the valour of its glory days. Furiously and then gently. Diminuendo then moderato. Allegro, then an intense staccato as his hearted pounded in rhythm with her powerful, _wild_ music.

At its climax, Lucius' heart felt like it wanted to burst out of its chest because it was so _full_ with her intoxicating music, but she then, simply gently let him go. Unwound all the tension in the air and cleared the cobwebs of her fantastic music from the hall.

The magic retreated into the piano and then on the last, final note, it seeped back into her fingertips. The room was dull and grey again. The hall creaked and groaned with the pain of remembering its age and Lucius felt entirely alone in his heart again.

She had the faintest trace of a smile on her face as she bore her eyes into his.

"It's unfinished you see. I wanted more out of it. There's something ill-fitting out this piece, don't you agree?"

"No. No I can't agree to that. It's perfect. It's _beautiful_." And in his heart; it absolutely was.

The compliment elicited a humble blush from her, but her face still crumpled into an annoyed, agitated frown.

"But it's _wrong!_"

He started at her, an eyebrow raised to challenge her.

"It's _wrong_." She repeated, a little more defeatedly this time. She looked up at him.

"What's wrong with it then?"

"The medium is all wrong. This should be a quartet piece for strings. This was made for _strings_."

"The piano is a string instrument too you know," Lucius replied; his lone eyebrow still arched in dispute. "And it is perfect in the piano."

She sighed and hunched her back again, then regained her posture once more.

"One day, I'll show you. When I get it right I'll show you. I'll show you the _real_ glory of this piece."

He smiled; the arched eyebrow coming down to rest and said;

"I will look forward to it."

Then they sat together on the stool, staring at the piano and occasionally at each other, until eventually awkwardness washed over them and Narcissa used the excuse of lateness to slip out of the abandoned hall and descend down the hill.

That night, as Narcissa was nestled in the warm, familiar red embroidered sheets, she had once last thought before she drifted into a comfortable sleep.

'_Odd. I did not think to introduce myself. How unlady like of me.'_

She opened her blue, blue eyes and looked at the darkness and then smiled secretly to herself.

'_I don't think it matters. Do you?"_

_

* * *

_

Somewhere else, miles away, Lucius Malfoy had a similar thought.

_A woman had her back towards him and was staring intently at something in-front of them. He tore his gaze from the sight of the anonymous, yet familiar woman's back to look up at what was occupying her so. _

_It was a large floor length mirror, framed with intricate gold ivy patterns and in it, was a woman's veiled face. He moved closer, more preoccupied with seducing the gorgeous body of the woman than the peculiarity of the scene before him. He touched her hands with his and slowly moved his up her soft, fleshy arms until he reached her shoulders. She felt anonymous. Like any of the many whom he had courted and thrown aside. With his hands around her neck as if to strangle her, he kissed the nape of her neck and revelled in the taste of honey and cider and –_

_The mirror shattered in a great, loud, thunderous sound and suddenly he was thrown into a black nothingness- _

And then, he woke, in his own earthly body again; startled. Lucius thought little of the strange dream and rose to find some sleeping draft – or the alternative; firewisky. Either would do he decided.

This time, when Lucius fell back into bed, he fell also into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

The next day passed by with its usual monotonous drone. Lucius woke up to the same miserable house-elf's urging and once again at breakfast silently with his parents. He dressed and took leave of his parents, one also dressing in similar garb, the other barely decent as she wrestled with drawing a perfect line along her eyelid.

He was at the ministry for five hours sorting through official papers and several more manoeuvring an extension for a government lease with the goblins of Gringotts. He spent his lunch break with the wealthy sons of the wizarding world's elite, sipping imported coffee and making sport of newly promoted assistants who had little experience with the sophisticatedly mischievous ways of his class' youth.

The weekend arrived and then left. Parties were attended and then left also. Lucius' parents weaved in and out of his life without tremor. He laughed at trivial, cruel jokes and exercised his snobbery as habit. Life plodded on, the events of the abandoned hall and its wild, wild music forgotten and was replaced once again by a buzzing sound that threw a dampening haze on everything.

The hold of the magical reverie that Lucius had experienced was now fully gone.

And a suffocating boredom once again filled him.

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Thank you for your patience. I hope you enjoyed this rather delayed installment. 


	4. How they Loved II

Masquerade: How they Loved II

* * *

The boredom filled every fibre of his being and even the air he inhaled and then exhaled felt consumed by it. For those months until he chanced upon the pianist again, boredom drove him. It taught him how to eat, how to sleep, how to breathe; even taught him a degree of maliciousness which he had never known before and yet Lucius Malfoy still did not know it.

It wasn't that Lucius Malfoy was _blind_, no, only a _fool_ would call Lucius Malfoy blind – it was just that he took the brimming arrogance so in his stride that he often forgot to validate its origins. So he never knew boredom. Never understood the reasons for his restlessness and the lukewarm haze in which he always felt submerged in. He simply waded through life honing an elegance to his cruelty and perfecting the viciousness of his smirk for Lucius Malfoy was not one to turn his head and look back. He was not one to dwell on the past.

But if he had –just _if_ he had, he would have seen it. He would have seen boredom walking behind him – a single step behind. And had he looked back on all his years he would have also seen their footsteps –his and boredom's- stretched out behind him towards the horizon. Had he seen it, he would have understood, he would have _known_ boredom; his constant companion through their journey together which had matured him into who he was.

But, testament to his character, Lucius Malfoy never did.

* * *

In May, Lucius Malfoy was once again in the throes of a detestable muggle town. The minister himself had asked Lucius to run this particular errand and so refusing would have only been difficult but not impossible. However, the minister had sensed that by asking the Malfoy to enter a muggle area had caused offence, but stressed that it was a vital and delicate matter and required Lucius' distinct persuasiveness.

And so, having left the minister's office with a strained, displeased smile and assurances that the minister was in his debt, Lucius Malfoy ventured into Rosin Lane on Friday night. The man he was here to meet with was a rather eccentric pureblood named Latis Torin, who, having fallen in love with the architecture of this particular house on Rosin Lane chose to put up with muggles as neighbours and the inconvenience of having to commute to work. A man like Torin, with his wealth and his connections could have lived in any of the wealthy wizarding suburbs, but to his wife's dismay had adamantly chosen this particular house.

Mrs Torin eventually had to settle for the manor being in a muggle neighbourhood because her husband was in love with it and nothing would persuade him otherwise. Mrs Torin also eventually came to accept Boulevard Manor, especially since jealous acquaintances flocked from all over England to visit it. One could say she was almost flattered by all the attention.

The Boulevard Manor had stood for centuries at the end of Rosin Lane, imposing its presence on passer-bys and children who hit their balls too far. Initially Torin had applied to physically _move_ the house to a wizarding suburb at his wife's insistence, but no amount of string pulling could approve the application; so monumental was the Boulevard's existence on Rosin Lane.

And any man of taste could see why.

The Torin family butler, expecting his arrival, greeted Lucius at the gates and ushered him inside to the study where Latis was waiting. After light refreshments were served and they had both given the obligatory greetings and comments, they settled right down to the issue at hand.

And as soon as they began, Lucius understood why the minister had requested him to handle this problem. Latis was perceptive, sharp and never spoke directly. Everything he said was veiled by his intricate, worldly way of talking and subtle undertones of sarcasm. It was as if Torin spoke in code and any misstep in language would result in humiliation. Combined with the expensive whisky Torin keep refilling his glass with and expected him to drink within a certain timeframe, the conversation quickly became a treacherous minefield, even for Lucius Malfoy's eloquent wit.

Latis Torin had this look, this one _look_ that constantly flashed on his face in-between his sentences. It was a look bordering on mocking incredulity and came adorned with a sneer. It was a look that made people nervous - Torin knew that, but Lucius Malfoy did not flinch at it. He, being accustomed to it because it was a look his father, Abraxas Malfoy also frequently wore on his face, and so he merely smirked in response.

Having pitted his will against Torin's and merged victorious – barely, but victorious nonetheless – Lucius Malfoy left the house, his brain slightly fuzzy from exhaustion and whirling from the experience.

Any other member of the Ministry's Junior Office would have been trampled by any sort of conversation with Torin. Even most of the Senior Staff would have been outwitted. But then again, there were very few currently in office that were able to best Lucuis' brilliance. A fact he knew well because he enjoyed ridiculing many of the Senior Staff and humiliating their careers. However because Lucius was intimately versed in the ebb and flow of wizarding society's elite, he understood that he couldn't tread too harshly without making serious enemies and that instead of pushing for aggressive promotions, everything had its time. The senior members would retire and he would undoubtedly be among those who would rise into their vacated positions. Young members of society, who had fought their way to the top, were deeply resented by both the Junior and Senior Offices – something Lucius had witnessed by watching the rise and fall of his paternal cousin, who supposedly died pathetically young of stress and paranoia.

* * *

Just before walking into the Leaky Cauldron and rejoining the company of wizards, Lucius Malfoy glimpsed the retreating figure of a familiar female silhouette clad in black. At the urging of a single, naked flame rising from the abysses of his heart, or simply perhaps he was drunk, Lucius Malfoy without reason decided to follow the woman. His journey from the cold stone steps in front of the Leaky Cauldron all the way to a concert hall half the town away was marred by something he couldn't quite describe; something that was akin to desperation. But, like boredom, Lucius did not know it.

He couldn't really be sure who the woman was as he followed her, threading through crowds of faceless people. There was something about her. Something about the way she walked in those quick, hurried little steps that reminded him of the woman he had met in the abandoned hall all those months ago. Something about the way she wrapped her luxurious trench coat around that firm, thin waist. Something about the way she held her head and her back and adjusted the ornaments in the hair artistically piled on top of her head. Something about those fingers that did that that reminded him of her. And something within his response to this anonymous woman that reminded him of her.

But he couldn't be sure. And he would never be sure. In an instant, before Lucius had the chance to touch her shoulder and look at her face, she was swept away by a regal looking man and suddenly, quite suddenly, Lucius Malfoy found himself in a crowd of muggles without good reason. Whatever force had persuaded him to pursue her through the muggle city had relinquished its hold over him and as he dusted the last shreds of it off along with the non-existent dust on his coat, he couldn't help but clutch at the inevitably of _what if_.

Yet by the time he went to bed and after he had decided to apparate while drunk, Lucius Malfoy had largely rid his consciousness of his peculiar side-trip and the strange inklings of desperation that had clung very near to his heart.

* * *

And yet that night, he had the dream again. The very same dream that he had dreamt the night he met her; the dream of an anonymous woman's back and the taste of honey and cider.

_The mirror was there again; large and whole, it stood in front of the woman and showed her face veiled in black. He touched her hands again and slowly drew his own up her arms lying limp against her sides. His hands reached her shoulders again, like they had in his last dream, but instead of encircling her neck, he slid them over her soft shoulders and clasped his hands around her arms in an embrace. His own arms lay delighting in the swell of her breasts underneath them and the coolness of her silk dress._

_As he put his pointed chin in the crook of her neck and inhaled the scent of honey and cider, he felt fire race through his nerves and quicken the pace of his heart until he felt ready to burst._

_And then the body vanished from within his grasp._

_Yet she was still there. There in the mirror, the veiled face and that seductive, anonymous body, familiar and yet alien was still there. She turned around in the mirror and he saw the low V of her black dress clinging to her frame and her back and its sensual curves that made him want to seduce her._

_In the final moments of his dream, she turned her head towards him and although he could not see her face, he could feel her eyes boring into him. Then the mirror began to crack, as it had in his last dream. The crack began at her face, and once again shattered the floor length mirror in a loud thunderous series of clashes that forced him from his sleep._

Lucius Malfoy woke, alone in his bed and his heart pounding and overflowing with desire.

* * *

He met her again, quite by coincidence, in the same abandoned old hall in which they had met. She sat on the piano stool, in a hypnotised state, her fingers lightly dancing across the white and ebony keys without playing them and making a sound.

He walked towards her, his confident strides alerting her to his presence. She turned her blond head and blue eyes towards him.

"Why are you here?"

"On a whim."

"Ah, me too. On a whim."

He sat down next to her as he had all those months ago and looked at her and let his eyes soak in the familiarity of her body.

She looked down at the hands in her lap and blushed.

"You were right you know. About the piano. That piece really is perfect on the piano."

He smirked as he always did instead of smile, but when his lips curved, they were softer than they usually were – an almost smile.

"Lucius"

"Narcissa"

And that was it. That was all the introduction they needed.

From then on, they continued to meet frequently in the abandoned hall at determined intervals.

At first they were just short meetings in the hall where they talked of music. When the initial shyness wore off; they ventured outside into the overgrown grounds on good days and danced together in the hall to the music in their heads when it rained.

The first time he held her hand in his, he relished in the feel of her small, fluttery fingers within his grasp..

They took things slowly, neither one feeling the urge to rush and felt content just to be within the presence of the other.

For Lucius, this was unlike any other romance he had pursued before. He couldn't see the end. He couldn't even begin to fathom an end to what they shared. With others, he always planned ahead. He always planned the end, before anything really even began. He planned the end, because he always attempted to steer the course of their relationship into the cleanest possible break, with the least amount of mess for him. But with Narcissa, he couldn't imagine an end, not even a theoretical one.

When they were together they rarely talked of the world, or themselves, yet somehow, they still managed to make conversation and laughter.

The first time they kissed was when they were picnicking down by the river under the shadow of the old hall. And for those fleeting seconds, everything was perfect.

And so under the care of the old, abandoned hall, and in a place where the world and time felt isolated and alien to them, their romance blossomed.

But every night they met, the same dream plagued Lucius' sleep. The mirror, the woman and that face obscured by a black veil.

* * *

Thank you for your patience. I hope you enjoyed this rather delayed installment.


End file.
